


Out Tonight

by crown_of_weeds



Series: Be OK [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Ableism, Canon Disabled Character, Developmental Disability, F/F, F/M, Learning Disabilities, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crown_of_weeds/pseuds/crown_of_weeds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's just thinking about how hilarious the movie is when a girl, who talks like Santana but reminds Brittany a lot more of herself, starts dancing like her veins are boiling and Brittany gets infected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Out Tonight 1/4**

**Title** : Out Tonight  
 **Author** : Crown Of Weeds  
 **Rating** : I'm putting it at R for the future, and so I can use whatever language and concepts I want.  
 **Word Count** : This part is 2274 words.  
 **Spoilers** : This is cannon-compliant through 2.16, and I don't think the story itself is going to wind up completely Alternate Universe so much as...Complementary Universe.  
 **Pairings** : Brittany/Artie, Brittany/Santana, Kurt/Blaine, background cannon pairings (though not in this part), etc.  
 **Warnings** : Brittany is characterized as having an [ID/DD](http://www.aaidd.org/content_104.cfm), and other characters can be canonically ableist about it. The suicides of gay teens from September and October of 2010 are mentioned. Also there is angst.  
 **Disclaimer** : I don't own _Glee_ , nor do I own _Rent_ from which I have taken the title _Out Tonight_. I put them back when I'm done, and I don't make any money off of anything ever.  
 **  
This is part 1/4 of the sequel to**[ ** _Sing Me A Song Of Forgetting_**](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/1145.html) **.**

 **Summary** : She's just thinking about how hilarious the movie is when a girl, who talks like Santana but reminds Brittany a lot more of herself, starts dancing like her veins are boiling and Brittany gets infected.

 

  


Kurt Hummel is not afraid of very many things. Possibly alcohol, definitely showing his arms below the elbow, definitely  _not_ Karofsky—an active and healthy instinct for self preservation being about the opposite of a phobia. Kurt's not really afraid of very much at all, but Brittany's garbled tale about Time Turners and forgetting and  _stopping_ has left something chanting  _October, October, October_ in the back of his brain. He remembers, vividly, being a scared little kid wrestling with extraordinary ordinariness himself. It was what, two hours ago at the funeral? He will do anything he can to keep Brittany from doing what so many of them do when they realize that life is just relentlessly and exhaustingly and (worst of all)  _boringly..._

 

Mean.

 

(“Yeah, Dad. I know it's Sunday. Yes, I understand that sleepovers are not generally allowed when I have a two-hour drive to school tomorrow. But it's  _Brittany_ , Dad. It's  _Brittany_ , and I didn't even think she could cry in the first place, and I know, I know it's been months since September and  _October_ but, but...”)

 

Kurt Hummel is not afraid of very many things, but it would be fair to say that when Brittany answers the door with a face that is rubbery and deadened he feels fucking  _terrified_ .

 

(“Blaine, I'm so sorry, I've got to go over, this is the worst way to say goodbye ever and I'm  _sorry_ and I'll make it up to you tomorrow, okay, coffee's on me, but I don't even know when or why or how but something happened and if she—she won't, but Brittany is never this—you don't even know her, this is so stupid, I just—” 

 

“Don't be an idiot. I'll drive.”

 

Maybe it says something, doesn't it, that Blaine barely even knows Brittany, had just caught a sobbed reference to Santana and seen how Kurt's face had gone twisted and then watery and then hard as the sobs got progressively more broken and tired through the phone, and he knows exactly what Kurt can't say. He knows, and he's coming too. Kurt would kiss him, but they don't have enough time.)

 

He doesn't smile; that feels like it would be all kinds of wrong. He jerks his chin at the emergency mani/pedi case in his arms and offers a weak “Fingers? Toes? Blaine said he'd let you paint his if he can come in too.”

 

*****

 

Kurt's first mistake, and the mistake on which he will blame all of the others, lies in thinking that  _ Rent _ could be as much of a comfort movie to Brittany as it is to him.

 

He realizes by the end that he is actually a  _fucking idiot_ and should have just brought  _The Aristocats_ to put in like he had last year when there was clearly no point in making out with her anymore. Cats, animation, music, and Disney—all of Brittany's favorite things on one handy DVD and he had to bypass it for a musical about AIDs (and lesbians, because he is apparently  _incredibly sensitive_ ). He understands now why he is still going out with a boy— _going out with a boy!—_ who thinks that a dead bird's funeral is an appropriate time to talk about his dead mother. They deserve each other.

 

Still, he had arrived at Brittany's with inappropriate boyfriend in tow and Rent balanced atop his emergency mani/pedi case on a mission to make Brittany smile and never, ever again hear the way her pitch breaks on the consonants when she cries over the phone. He hopes that this counts for something.

 

Brittany had looked like she was trying really hard to be maybe even the tiniest bit excited about all the different colors of nail polish he'd lined up on her dresser, but she hadn't been able to make a decision and apparently  _that_ was a problem itself, and she'd started crying again and hadn't stopped until they were all piled in a heap of elbows and soft sweaters on her bed, her laptop perched precariously by their feet as “Seasons Of Love” started. The simple staging and powerful voices had caught her interest and it had seemed like the best idea Kurt had ever had. It probably is, too—he knows that Brittany's education in just about everything ever has been woefully spotty, but, seriously, she's never seen  _Rent_ ? That sort of thing ought to be illegal.

 

She claps and laughs when Angel does his flips and turns the apartment into a drum set, and Kurt is still mentally patting himself on the back and letting himself snuggle back against Blaine— _we did it, see, no Octobers here—_ when “Out Tonight” starts up and Brittany goes horribly, intently still. 

 

Kurt feels something like a warning curl in his stomach and he pulls away from Blaine a little. “Boo?” he asks. Brittany ignores him, staring at Mimi crawling across a stage, and doesn't move.

 

(The tears and snot are clogging her throat and her breathing is erratic and loud, but Kurt definitely heard “I just want to stop, Kurt. Everything needs to just stop. I need to stop. Just...stop. All done now.”)

 

He wonders if Blaine can hear _October, October, October_ , or is this is something special only he gets to hear because he decided, one day, that he needed an extra person to care about and that this person needed to be Brittany.

 

“I get that she's hot, theoretically, but I think Roger has dibs on her,” he jokes. Brittany doesn't even seem to hear him, which is good because from the sound Blaine makes as he tugs Kurt back down that was actually probably _another_ insensitive thing to say in this context and really, Kurt needs to stop trying to help until he grows up and actually knows what the fuck he's doing. Blaine should know.

 

(Except Kurt thinks, in the corner of his brain that looks at things painfully straight-on, that he is probably able to help more than any adult right now, which is maybe the worst part. Definitely the scariest.)

 

Kurt watches her shoulders, pulled together in a frozen tension, and doesn't relax until they jump and then unclench at “who do you think you are?” Something is still off, though, and he can't get into the movie anymore, even though “I'll Cover You” is so _relevant to his life_ _right now_ and he can't help but wonder if Blaine has the range for Collins' part.

 

_Focus_ he reminds himself.  _Brittany is certainly doing a good enough job at it_ . 

 

The credits roll. None of them are crying, which is a surprise—Kurt can never make it through the whole thing dry-eyed, so he blames this new, soulless development on his distraction. Brittany looks like she is going to run laps around her room. Blaine is blending into the background, pulling out nail files and cuticle softener and pretending that Kurt's one attempt to _do something about those hands_ hadn't ended in an awkward conversation about the differences between sleepovers with the Glee girls versus the Warblers.

 

Brittany jumps off the bed and makes a grab for her running shoes. Kurt sits on his hands so he won't grab her and forces his tone to mild disinterest when he asks “Where are you off to?” Brittany stuffs her feet past the elastic laces and starts to worry her hair into a ponytail.

 

“Out,” she smiles vaguely. “I'm going out tonight.” Her mouth twists at that.

 

“We haven't even picked nail polish colors yet,” Blaine remarks quietly, but Brittany just grabs a sweatshirt and starts for the door. “Kurt's never even _done_ my nails before,” he tries, but she thumps down the stairs and Kurt yanks him by the arm when he runs by. Kurt isn't sure what, exactly, is going on, but _October, October, October_.

 

*****

 

Brittany is really, really grateful that Kurt came over. It's very nice of him, and she especially likes the part where he doesn't even pretend to have answers he doesn't, just a DVD and some nail stuff. He doesn't even get a _look_ when she cries at all the damn choices _._ She's pretty sure Blaine does, but she's ignoring him since he's still new, and Kurt just wraps her up in the tightest, warmest hug he's ever given her. She likes being puddled on her bed with him, her cheek resting on the cashmere of his sweater, warm and happy and listening to some people with really good voices. The singing is like dancing for tired people, and Brittany has never felt so worn out.

 

She's just thinking about how hilarious the movie is when a girl, who talks like Santana but reminds Brittany a lot more of herself, starts dancing like her veins are boiling and Brittany gets infected.

 

_Just take me out tonight._

 

So she goes out.

 

Brittany has always been proud of her stamina. She lasts longer than other people: she is always ready for another round, even when Artie or San—or the football team boys don't want to move; she never had much trouble keeping up with the Cheerio's exercise routines; she gets up at five to run every morning because she likes to go fast. She goes fast and she lasts a long time, and that's always been awesome. Sometimes she can run faster than the people who remember what she's forgotten. A lot of the time, if she just _keeps going_ , she'll remember in time. If she just keeps going, if she just outlasts everyone else, then none of it matters anyways because she's there at the end, which is all that really counts anyways.

 

It's _gotta be close to midnight_ , and Brittany is running faster than she ever has before. There's a stretch and burn in her legs soon, and she pushes them further, spreads each stride longer. Her right oblique feels like it's being stabbed, but that's just the desired aerobic reaction. Her throats burns, so she won't be able to sing tomorrow, but that doesn't matter since she has no plan to ever stop running, and therefore she will not be going to school.

 

Her sweat cools and itches, and her sweatshirt sticks to her, but it's called a _sweatshirt_ , so that's exactly right. Behind her, Kurt and Blaine fall farther and farther behind; Brittany's pretty sure they were right behind her before she hit her stride, but then they fell back and she pulled ahead and now she can outrun them and their stupid nail polish and their easy spooning and their fucking private school brains.

 

Brittany runs through a green light and turns down a road she's never tried before.

 

She loses count of how often she does that. She runs faster, and the night gets quieter and quieter. It's dark, but that doesn't matter; she can't really see anyways. She'd learned, ages ago when she first started working out, that anything faster than a slow walk leaves her blinded by motion and blurring colors, unable to map out where she is in the world, or where she isn't. Sometimes, when putting herself back together is just too much, Brittany runs until she loses herself completely and finds a new person to be. Running is better than even dancing for getting lost.

 

Brittany goes fast.

 

Kurt and Blaine get a little closer; she must be slowing down. That's okay, she can still outlast them. She's slower, but there's no reason to think she's ever going to stop, so she can still win this. She can still get away.

 

She'll leave them behind, and then nature will take its course and she'll forget them, and then everyone, and then herself.

 

Brittany slows down some more, and that's just really unacceptable, _Brittany has to go fast_ , so she kicks off against the pavement a little more sharply and names the muscle pains and shin splints and pushes through and past them, too. She's on her sixth wind.

 

She goes faster.

 

Everything hurts, but that's kind of the fucking point, so she doesn't stop. She can't stop. The plan is to never stop, but then she runs into a lamp post and sort of crumples on the sidewalk and that is the end of that.

 

_Get up_ .

 

She would, she really would, but her limbs are heavy and not there and knotted up and she can't.

 

*****

 

Kurt pulls Blaine to a stop half a block before they reach Brittany and waits.

 

*****

 

Brittany can't keep running any more than she can remember everything she needs to, but then she can't stop moving any more than she can forget, and it occurs to her that she's not sure which is worse.

 

Her limbs slowly sort themselves out, and her mind is a million miles away but she stares at a stained warehouse wall and wraps herself around the streetlight and is, far away, surprised to find she can't stop moving  _on and on and on and on..._

 

*****

 

And that is the story of how Kurt finds himself in the middle of one of the sketchier corners of Lima at 2:30 a.m. on a Monday, hanging onto his boyfriend and trying not to gasp for air so quickly because it makes his lungs burn even more, tasting sweat and watching Brittany pole-dance on a lamp post. He's not quite sure how three terrified teenagers are supposed to move forward from this point. He's not quite sure how they _got_ to this point.

 

_It's the middle of March, for fuck's sake. It's been five months._

 

But then, Brittany has always been a bit slow.

   
  
[Part 2](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/6032.html)


	2. Chapter 2

**Out Tonight 2/4**  
  
 **Title** : Out Tonight  
 **Author** : Crown Of Weeds  
 **Rating** : I'm putting it at R for the future, and so I can use whatever language and concepts I want.  
 **Word Count** : This part is 2277 words.  
 **Spoilers** : Cannon-compliant through 2.16, and I don't think the story itself is going to wind up completely Alternate Universe so much as...Complementary Universe.  
 **Pairings** : Brittany/Artie, Brittany/Santana, Kurt/Blaine, background cannon pairings (though not in this part), etc.  
 **Warnings** : Brittany is characterized as having an [ID/DD](http://www.aaidd.org/content_104.cfm), and other characters can be canonically ableist about it. Especially Blaine in this part.   
 **Disclaimer** : I don't own  _Glee_ , nor do I own  _Rent_  from which I have taken the title  _Out Tonight_. I put them back when I'm done, and I don't make any money off of anything ever.   
 **  
This is part 2/4 of the sequel to**[ ** _Sing Me A Song Of Forgetting_**](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/1145.html) **.** Part 1 is [here](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/5517.html).  
  
This part is necessarily told mostly through the eyes of non-Brittany characters, but the next part should be better about that. Sweet lady kisses coming...eventually.  
  
 **Summary** : Blaine knows that Kurt has never really attracted normal people in his life, but he still thinks Kurt maybe could have tried and prepared him a little for Brittany.   
  
  


 

Blaine knows that Kurt has never really attracted normal people in his life, but he still thinks Kurt maybe could have tried and prepared him a little for Brittany.

 

It's one thing to meet her when everyone is drinking and he's mostly seeing how far he can push things (answer: frenching Kurt's rival in everything ever is a step or five over the line). It's another thing entirely to meet her after a week that's chewed up his heart, spit him into Kurt's arms, and then sent them both running to her because it's not  _fair_  that the rules in Ohio say that happiness for two gay teens means another wants to die.

 

Blaine really does think, though, that everything will be okay. He is currently a walking It Gets Better; he and Kurt can totally handle whatever is about to happen. He'll be the supportive boyfriend, step in with helpful advice when necessary, and they'll meet up at Dalton tomorrow with matching looks of relief and triumph.

 

Then Blaine meets Brittany, really meets her, and something is off. He tries to remember if Kurt's said anything about her before and oh, yes, he had. Wow. She's  _that_  Brittany, isn't she? Okay. Does Kurt realize how much less hilarious and more terrifying she is when she's crying because there are just too many colors of nail polish?

 

From the way Kurt pulls her onto the bed and wraps himself around her like a blanket, he thinks that yeah, Kurt's probably got something of an idea.

 

Blaine can't stop  _looking_  at Brittany all night. She's tall, and probably pretty, and he knows she dances like she's praying and also like a motherfucker, but up close and sober there is something pervasively  _wrong_  about her face. It's hiding in the way she holds herself, her eyes, the way she moves...he doesn't know what it is, but she gives off these vibes that make him a little confused and a lot anxious. He wants to ask Kurt what she's even doing having all of this sex in the first place, why was she stripping at the party, is that even legal, where the  _hell_  are her parents?

 

When he finally talks to her he keeps his voice low and gentle, but she bolts and they go after her. It's something out of a nightmare or a psychodrama thriller, vaguely surreal and of course through it all going home doesn't even cross his mind. He thinks he understands, now, why Kurt looked like he's seen a ghost when she'd opened the door.

 

He also thinks they're going to try and catch her, but when he gets close enough and stretches out his hand Kurt jerks him back and ignores his puzzled eyebrows. So they run, and they run, and holy hell this girl is fit, and they keep running and Lima gets progressively darker and more run-down, and then she starts swinging from lamp-posts and Blaine stops trying to understand.

 

Kurt is clinging to him and watching her, and he's not sure if it's the shadows or if Kurt's face is actually filtering through that many emotions. He watches, and he waits. He checks his phone once: 3:00 a.m. He shows it to Kurt, who nods.

 

“Boo?” Kurt calls. “I'm really tired.”

 

Brittany is hanging upside-down by her legs and banging her head very gently against the lamp-post. She rights herself but doesn't let go of the pole, frowning. “Me too,” she sighs. Kurt walks over to her, slow but confident, and offers her his hand. She latches onto it and grabs his other, and they start to make their way back, aided by Blaine's GPS app.

 

“I'm just so tired,” she whispers, and Kurt squeezes her fingers, tangled in his.

 

“I know. Let's go to bed.”

 

Kurt actually tucks her in while Blaine gathers up the nail stuff and tries not to stare too much. Kurt asks where her cat is, and makes her some warm milk, and has Brittany promise to go to all her dance classes tomorrow. It's sweet and equally comforting and unnerving, and Blaine is putting his scarf back on when Brittany sits up and fixes Kurt with a glare that makes everything stop.

 

“I am your  _friend_ , not your baby.”

 

_Fuck this_ , thinks Blaine,  _I don't know any of the rules for her_.

 

*****

 

Brittany collapses, but she hasn't run into the pole headfirst so Kurt pulls Blaine back again and waits.

 

Hours ago, at the funeral, Blaine wanted to know if Kurt was reminded of his mother's death. He hadn't been then, no—the size of the casket and the weakness of the sun and the cold, wet March air had prevented that. No, it hadn't reminded him of that at all, so why was it all he could think of now?

 

_No, this is her son; she's dead._

 

Rachel had said she fantasized about Finn overcome with grief and throwing himself on her casket. Kurt had muttered something about insanity and left it at that; he wasn't about to ruin her romantic thrill with the knowledge that the worst part came after the burial, when there were groceries to buy and Saturday morning cartoons to watch and new _Vogues_  on the shelf. The worst part had been when an eight-year-old Kurt had discovered that all the books and movies had lied to him: your mom dies, and you cry, and then...nothing stops. There is no climax, no suitable drama, no pathos, no aching music, and no response is quite sufficient. Three minutes later your eyes hurt and you have no one to tell this to, but they still hurt. Three days later you are doing your homework, and the other kids are falling off of monkey bars, and they pull you up on the jungle gym too. Three weeks later your dad is teaching you how to change a headlight. Three years later she's still dead.

 

The thing about moments is that they pass. Some moments feel like they're going to swallow you up and stop everything, and you can't possibly move forward from this point, but they don't, and you always do.  _That's_  the worst part.

 

Kurt waits, curiously, to see what will happen when Brittany realizes that running away from this moment won't make it stay.

 

*****

 

Brittany mostly feels cheated, and she's so, so tired of that feeling. She lets Kurt wrap her hands up in his again and coax her over miles of broken roads ( _how did I not fall earlier_ ) under shuddering lights until her legs are barely shuffling along, heavier than cement.

 

“I want to stop,” she whispers vaguely when the roads are a little more familiar and maintained. She doesn't expect Kurt to hear, but he pushes an arm into the small of her back and starts walking a little faster.

 

“I know, boo,” he whispers into her hair. “I know. We don't get to.”

 

Cheated.

 

His iphone vibrates again, and when the ringtone starts in on  _Here Comes The Sun_  he twirls her down the street until it fades away. “Blaine,” he calls, dipping her inexplicably on the last notes, and she looks back and sees Blaine, she's forgotten about Blaine, a few feet behind them and looking like he has too many thoughts. “Can you call—no, text him—no, he'll want to hear you, call my Dad back and tell him we'll be home at, oh god, maybe six?”

 

Blaine reaches for his phone, but it's already going off and Brittany hears a low “Hello Mr. Hummel,” before Kurt hums something in her ear and attempts a tango.

 

She wants to hit him, but her arms are sore too and her body seems to prefer being pulled along.

 

It's the part of night with no stars when they stumble into her driveway and up onto her porch, and she hears Blaine hiss something to Kurt about  _parents._ Kurt makes a face and asks her where the key is. Brittany thinks she says the doorbell works fine, but everything is sort of running together and Blaine runs his fingers over the lintel and unlocks the door and they tiptoe up the stairs and into her room, so it probably doesn't matter.

 

Kurt pulls off her sweatshirt and shoes and asks if she wants a shower. Brittany can't remember how to stand up, or where the bathroom is, so she rolls over on the bed and Kurt is quiet for a second and then says he's going to go raid her kitchen and make some warm milk, and would Blaine please get the nail stuff together? Brittany doesn't want to be alone with Blaine, but that probably doesn't matter either.

 

Kurt comes back, and the drink tastes like cotton but that might just be her mouth, doesn't matter. He tucks her in, though, and  _that_ , that matters. It takes her a while to work out if she can say anything about it.

 

“So, listen, it's really important that you get some sleep, okay? Things always look better when you have a fresh head. Don't sleep too late though, screwing up your circadian rhythms won't help anything. I'm going to set your alarm for ten, and I'll leave a note telling your Dad you felt sick and should stay home from school today. He's the one who does the mornings, yeah? So I'll take care of that, but I want you to promise me that you'll go to your dance classes tomorrow, okay? It's really important. Can you promise me? I'll call you afterwards, maybe we can make a fondue date or something, just promise me you'll go to dance tomorrow. Today. Whatever, just promise me, okay babe?”

 

She's way too tired to dance around this.

 

_I am your_ friend _, not your baby_ , she thinks, and from the way Kurt's fingers stiffen in her hair, she manages to say it, too. It's something.

 

*****

 

They have to go back to Kurt's house for their uniforms and unfinished homework, and Kurt's Dad is waiting for them in the same flannel he was wearing last night, something that smells like fat and warmth and  _good_  cooking on the stove and the tallest mugs of coffee Blaine's ever seen poured for them, black, by the time they make it to the kitchen.

 

Kurt answers a raised paternal eyebrow with a mild “everyone's still alive.”

 

Carol comes into the kitchen, tying her bathrobe, and shakes her head. “No, Burt,” she says firmly, intercepting the coffee. “Absolutely no caffine, they won't be able to fall asleep.”

 

“That's why we need it,” tries Blaine. “We can't fall asleep in school. Well,” he corrects, watching Kurt yawn so hugely it looks like he could swallow his own fist, possibly his entire arm, “maybe we will, maybe we want to, I'll probably go to my room and Kurt is--” he feels a sharp, sudden pain in his leg, and remembers, right, parents, “-- _not_  welcome to join me, but what I mean is, we can't fall asleep on the road, we'll crash.” Kurt kicks him again.

 

Carol looks like she wants to laugh, which is comforting since Blaine is absolutely not going to look at Mr. Hummel ever, ever again. She shakes her head again and turns towards the stove, putting the coffee on the counter. “No. No Dalton today. You two are going to eat, and tell us what happened and who we need to call, and then you two will get some sleep. You can shower once you've woken up properly, and Blaine, I'd recommend you wake up first, as Kurt is going to want to do his emergency moisturizing protocol and that uses a lot of hot water.”

 

Blaine thinks he eats something delicious, and he thinks Kurt convinces his parents not to call Brittany's, although he also thinks the argument seems to end inauspiciously with Kurt falling asleep at the table so maybe not. Really, he's not quite sure about anything until he wakes at 11:30 to Carol poking him in the arm.

 

“Shower,” she advises.

 

He blinks, rolls up until he's sitting, and tries to stand. Holy  _fuck_ , that hurts. Everything hurts. Carol nods wisely. “Shower,” she repeats. “Or maybe watch him sleep for a minute. That helps me, with Burt, sometimes.”

 

Blaine is surprised by how much they both help.

 

They go do their homework at the Lima Bean, and the sun is warm through the window and his coffee makes his mind run a little sharp. He can smell about five different soft, clean scents off of Kurt's skin, since he's sitting  _next_  to Kurt, which is new and nice. He kind of can't get enough of it, actually.

 

Kurt growls softly.

 

Blaine glances up from his Calculus and over to Kurt's laptop. He recognizes the purple background and yellow highlights on the webpage, of course he does, but he can't figure out why Kurt would  _growl_  at them. “What's up?” he asks.

 

Kurt is glaring at his laptop as though it has betrayed him. “None of these are  _applicable_ , damn it,” he hisses, ex-ing out of another video and deleting his Trevor Project tab entirely. Blaine knocks his suspicion down with another gulp of coffee.

 

“I thought we were doing homework.”

 

“Yeah, well, I will, just as soon as I can find a video that's relevant. Brittany can't be the only gay like...like Brittany. Someone must have made a video.”

 

Blaine sips his medium drip very, very carefully. “Would they know how?” he asks.

 


	3. Out Tonight 3/4

**Out Tonight 3/4**

**Title** : Out Tonight  
 **Author** : Crown Of Weeds  
 **Rating** : I'm putting it at R for the future, and so I can use whatever language and concepts I want.  
 **Word Count** : This part is 2594 words.  
 **Spoilers** : Cannon-compliant through 2.16, and I don't think the story itself is going to wind up completely Alternate Universe so much as...Complementary Universe.  
 **Pairings** : Brittany/Artie, Brittany/Santana, Kurt/Blaine, background cannon pairings (though not in this part), etc.  
 **Warnings** : Brittany is characterized as having an [ID/DD](http://www.aaidd.org/content_104.cfm), and other characters can be canonically ableist about it. Especially Blaine. For now.  
 **Disclaimer** : I don't own _Glee_ , nor do I own _Rent_ from which I have taken the title _Out Tonight_. I put them back when I'm done, and I don't make any money off of anything ever.  
 **  
This is part 3/4 of the sequel to**[ ** _Sing Me A Song Of Forgetting_**](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/1145.html) **.** Part 1 is [here](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/5517.html). Part 2 is [here](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/6032.html).

 

**Summary** : She finds the Time Turner fallen behind her vanity. She cups it in her hands for a few seconds, staring, and then drops it in the trash and covers it with some old tissues and sticky notes.

 

 

Kurt sees, out of the corner of his eye, the careful, deliberate sip Blaine takes, and steels himself.

 

“Would they know how?”

 

_Brittany knows how to make a sextape, so probably_ , he thinks distantly. He snaps his laptop shut and reaches for his coffee, swallows enough to burn his throat, and then reaches for his AP Euro book. “Did you text Thad for the assignment pages yet?” he asks.

 

Blaine nudges a sheet of paper covered in titles and page numbers at him. “Here's today's new load. Kurt, we should...”

 

“Probably work intently without talking for three or four hours, I agree. _Thirty_ calculus problems, what the hell was Mr. Nemitz thinking?”

 

“Kurt...”

 

“Sh. You'll distract me, I'm like an hour behind you.”

 

“Yeah,” Blaine clears his throat. “We should probably talk about that. About why.”

 

Kurt closes his eyes and orders his mind to quiet. It's just like before singing, before performing—he can't afford to think about anything but the notes, the beat, his breath and the tightly controlled feeling he's going to build.  _Quiet_ . “No, we really don't.”

 

*****

 

Brittany's alarm goes off and Lord Tubbington rolls off her chest with a yowl. The beeps get progressively more shrill, hurting her bones until she remembers how to sit, stand, walk across the room and punch the top of the clock on her dresser until it turns off. 

 

Brittany looks, automatically, from the alarm clock to the checklist hanging on her wall.

 

“Right,” she says, the syllables crashing off her tongue and into her ears, “shower.”

 

*****

 

“I'm just saying, Kurt, last night was really kind of bizarre.”

 

_Last night was Brittany._ “And  _I_ am just saying, Blaine, darling, that I need to do my homework,”  _before I call Brittany again,_ “and I can't do that if you insist on  _talking_ about something that doesn't,”  _have any words,_ “need to be discussed. Brittany is my friend, and she was upset last night, and I was a good friend and you were a fantastic boyfriend, and now we need to do our homework. So. Can I copy your calculus, are you done with it yet?”

 

*****

 

It's ten forty-three, which means it's too early for lunch but too late for breakfast, and Brittany doesn't even believe in brunch. It's the last item on her morning checklist; what's she supposed to do now?

 

She contemplates the refrigerator for six minutes and then sits at the table and waits.

 

Dad comes in four minutes later and notices her playing with her ponytail and scowling at the clock. He pushes at his glasses and takes in her sweater and scarf. “Morning, Britt,” he smiles. “I guess you're up then. Where are you in the morning?”

 

“Breakfast,” Brittany answers automatically. 

 

Dad nods. “Okay, that's great. Where do we keep the breakfast stuff?”

 

Brittany frowns, and her throat tightens.  _We don't get to stop_ . “But it's too late,” she starts, and then she recognizes the handwriting on the yellow notebook paper resting at the other end of the table and lunges.

 

_Dear Mr. And Mrs. Pierce,_

 

_Brittany had a migraine last night, so we went on a walk. Something about exercise stimulating blood flow to the brain and relieving symptoms, I don't know, I can't keep up with her on this stuff. She wound up falling asleep a mile from home. We carried her back, but I bet she'd appreciate sleeping in today. She's probably just over-tired from Regionals, I don't think it's anything to be worried about._

 

_It was nice to see you again, even if only for a few minutes. I hope everyone is doing well._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Kurt Hummel_

 

Dad smiles gently at her and nods at the note when she looks up. “Do you feel any better this morning?”

 

Brittany swallows. “Yeah. Much. I, I should probably not make any coffee if I had a migraine last night. I'll just wait until lunch.”

 

*****

 

Blaine has a funny, stretched look on his face. “I think you're copying enough from me already,” he says, and Kurt's ears start to burn.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Blaine sounds...smooth. He sounds like he's drinking his coffee six feet across the table, hair and uniform perfect, and refusing to be the victim. “You're charging in, and trying to fix things and save someone, and you don't know what you're doing _._ ”

 

“I'm _really_ not following you.”

 

“Kurt, we're _kids_. We need to tell an adult what's going on.”

 

_Quiet, quiet, quiet_ .

 

“Kurt, listen.” Blaine reaches over and takes his hands. Kurt lets him, but he doesn't meet his eyes. He does, however, notice the muscles in Blaine's neck tighten. “You remember what happened, the last time I tried to help a kid out instead of going to an adult like I should have?”

 

Kurt pulls his hands back, but Blaine only sounds more determined.

 

“I do. He got assaulted. He could have been really, really badly hurt. And then he got death threats, and had to leave his school. I saw him smile the afternoon before I tried to _help_ , and then it was months before I saw it again. Because I was an idiot, and thought that I could be enough, things got a hundred times worse than they needed to have been. ”

 

It's almost impossible to keep his mind quiet. “Brittany's not going to get beat up, Blaine,” he whispers.  _Not as long as we don't tell._

 

“Yeah? It's a miracle we didn't get mugged last night, you know that? Kurt, you're doing the same thing I did. _Listen to me_. We are in so far over our heads, we don't even know which way is up.”

 

Kurt drains the rest of his coffee and grabs his cup. After a second's thought, he grabs Blaine's too, then heads for the counter. He doesn't watch Blaine when he goes.

 

*****

 

Brittany hides in her room, saying she should practice before dance, and checks her phone. Four texts from Artie:

 

_Where r u?_

 

_R u ok?_

 

_Hey, I have a weird offer for you._

 

_I'm gonna call you at lunch. 11:35, b ready._

 

Right. Artie.

 

She finds the Time Turner fallen behind her vanity. She cups it in her hands for a few seconds, staring, and then drops it in the trash and covers it with some old tissues and sticky notes.

 

*****

 

Kurt has never been very good at _not talking_ about things. He either compulsively tells the truth (“I thought the guy you wanted to ask out...was me,” “the touch of the fingertips is as sexy as it gets,” “ _I'm_ a guy, Dad,”) or he attacks and gets rid of the problem entirely. Well, he can't just get rid of Blaine, but even if he _had_ the words for it, he can't, he shouldn't, he doesn't _want to_ talk about it, either.

 

So he gets more coffee.

 

This is harder than calculus. This is harder than chord inversions. This is harder than 14 minutes of Celine Dion in the original French with Sue Sylvester making him start from the beginning every time his accent slips.

 

_I don't know the rules for this,_ he thinks. _This is stupid. This is so, so_ stupid _. I should be making out with my_ boyfriend _, not trying to juggle homework, caffeine highs, and a friend who probably shouldn't..._

 

He's not going to talk about it. He's not going to talk about it, not with Blaine or anyone, he's not going to talk about it and he's not going to think about the day Finn came home with a red tin pail of candy hearts so his brain can just _stop it_.

 

*****

 

“ _A kissing booth? Are you serious, Finn?”_

 

“ _Dude, it's a flawless plan. They were already giving me hearts, I might as well get something out of it.”_

 

“ _You were, Finn. You were. Blood sugar spikes and a swollen ego, namely.”_

 

“ _Well, yeah, obviously man, but I mean not just something for me. Something for Glee Club. I'm taking one for the team. I'm_ leading _.”_

 

“ _Are you now.”_

 

“ _Yeah. I'm gonna pay our way to Nationals, I'm like a business pro. I kissed, like, a hundred girls today.”_

 

_Kurt, against his will, was chuckling. Rolling his eyes, of course, but it was slightly hilarious, imagining girls lining up to pay to kiss--_

 

“ _Becky Jackson gave me seven dollars and wanted tongue.”_

 

_That was supposed to be funny, he knew. Finn was laughing about it; not cruelly, Finn had only been cruel once in his life, Kurt was pretty sure, but laughing. It was a warm kind of laugh, amused and secure and...indulgent. It was “I've already got a date to the prom. Thanks, though; I know how important dances are to teen gays.”_

 

*****

 

“Hey, Brittany. You feeling alright? Where are you?”

 

“Hi Artie. Yeah, I just...I had a migraine last night. Slept in. Better now; I'm gonna go to dance later.”

 

“Awesome. I mean, not awesome about the migraine,” and she can almost hear the held-back _obviously_ , but Artie never says that around her, “but it's great that you're feeling better. And dance, yay. That always makes you feel good.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah. So, hey, did you get my texts?”

 

“Yes. I was asleep, sorry. I figured I'd just wait for you to call me. Um, what was your weird offer?”

 

“Right, ok. So, Brittany, you remember the other team I'm on?”

 

“Football, duh.”

 

“No, sorry, I meant besides football and Glee. And Jazz band, and the AV club.”

 

“You do a lot.”

 

“Well, I mean, you take like six different dance classes--”

 

“Seven, and I'm doing an independent study with Ms. Haley to start preparing for auditions.”

 

“Right. Anyways. Remembers how I'm also on the Brainiacs? With Tina and Mike?”

 

“That's the team with the bad jackets? Yeah.”

 

“Right, that's us. Well, our next round is coming up, and we're short a player. And you, you just know all these _things_ about medicine, and even veterinary medicine, you're like an...like a savant. So we wanted to ask if you'd join our team. It's a lot of fun, I promise.”

 

“But...Artie. It sounds like school.”

 

“Well kind of, except fun, and interesting, and only about things you're good at.”

 

“But I'm not...I'm not good at anything. Well. Dancing. And sex. Am I good at sex?”

 

The pause stretches on just too long for her to read. “Artie?”

 

“I'm not having phone sex with you in the middle of my lunch. Shut _up_ Puck.”

 

Brittany feels something loosen in her stomach, and things seem a little warmer, a bit clearer. “Are you sure?”

 

“Unfortunately, yes.”

 

“Okay, I'll just...”

 

“But that's not even the point, Brittany. You're good at a _lot_ of things, and you know way more about medicine than any of the other brainiacs, and we would be _honored_ to have you on our team. We really can't win without you.”

 

“But Artie, I'm so stu--”

 

“Don't call yourself that, Brittany. Ok? It's not true.”

 

“Artie...”

 

“You're magic, Brittany.”

 

_Except I couldn't make the Time Turner work, so obviously not._ Brittany closes her eyes.

 

“Look. Can I come over tonight? I'll tell your parents I'm bringing you your homework, ok? We can talk more then.”

 

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want. I love you.”

 

*****

 

“ _Did you kiss her?” he asked unnecessarily. Finn rolled his eyes._

 

“ _Dude, it's_ Becky _. I took one dollar and pecked her on the cheek. It's cool, man. She's cool. I know you were a little scared of her when you were on the Cheerios, but she's a sweet girl, really.”_

 

_Becky had threatened Kurt's life with a crouton. She had invented insults that had Sue Sylvester handing off her megaphone and applauding. She wielded her clipboard as a highly effective weapon, and Kurt had watched her make a freshmen girl cry while he waited to see Sue during her stint as principal._

 

_Kurt swallowed, cleared his throat. “Sweet. Yeah. That's Becky. You sure she didn't, I don't know, threaten to disembowel you if you didn't give her her money's worth?”_

 

“ _What? Dude, no. She practically fainted right there in front of the booth. She was so happy. It wasn't...it wasn't any trouble.”_

 

_Of course it wasn't. Kurt hadn't been, either._

 

*****

 

Kurt puts the refilled coffees gingerly on their table. “There! Plenty of liquid brain power now, I should be unstoppable. So that's a no on the calculus? What about history, have you started the outline yet?”

 

Blaine ignores his coffee. He doesn't even seem deterred when Kurt grabs his notebook. “Kurt, I asked you like five times last night where the hell her parents were. You never answered, but you apparently know that her Dad _does the mornings_ , whatever that means. You didn't want your parents to call her's. You...you know a lot more about Brittany than I do, and you're not telling me the important parts.”

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Blaine, if I knew how to _say_ \--”

 

“Which of your parents _does the mornings_ , Kurt?”

 

“Blaine, that's not even an actual--”

 

“You told me, after Rachel's party, after our fight, that you went out with her. Did her Dad ever get his shotgun out?”

 

“I don't think they saw me as a viable threat.”

 

“But they said something, didn't they.”

 

Kurt wonders, idly, if he could pull off drowning in his coffee, and if it would stain his scarf. If it would be worth it.

 

“They did, didn't they. What did they say, Kurt?”

 

“I didn't...I didn't have the heart to tell them. They didn't even...they didn't even know she was having sex at all. They gave us the whole 'door stays open' talk, and then her Dad asked me if I could take a look at his engine, since I was so good with cars. Most heterosexual moment of my life. He told me that I needed to really, really listen carefully to what Brittany did and didn't say, because she wasn't going to know what she was saying yes or no to and he'd hate to have to kill me. He really liked my Dad's shop; he said it would be a hassle trying to find a new one.”

 

Blaine's face is inscrutable, but he's finally shut up. _Quiet, quiet, quiet,_ thinks Kurt, but he's never told anyone this and now he's confessing. “I couldn’t...I almost started laughing. Or crying. But I didn't, and when we broke up and I came out—again—they invited me over for dinner and just, just made it very clear that I was always welcome. I mean, why wouldn't they? I was safe.” He laughs. “Of course, Santana was over that night too. We were going to prepare a Cheerios routine. They thought she was harmless. She gives Brittany her birth control, did you know that?”

 

Kurt's hysterical now, all _quiet_ , all control gone, and he's shaking apart with something that could be laughter or might be something else.

 

Blaine isn't laughing.

 

[Part 4](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/11240.html)


	4. Out Tonight 4a/4

Out Tonight 4a/4

Title : Out Tonight   
Author : Crown Of Weeds   
Rating : I'm putting it at R for the future, and so I can use whatever language and concepts I want.   
Word Count : This part is 2221 words.   
Spoilers : Watched Night of Neglect? You're good.   
Pairings : Um, this story turned out to have no one getting  anything . Sorry.   
Warnings : Brittany is characterized as having an [ ID/DD ](http://www.aaidd.org/content_104.cfm) , and other characters can be canonically ableist about it. It's complicated.   
Disclaimer : I don't own  Glee , nor do I own  Rent from which I have taken the title  Out Tonight . I put them back when I'm done, and I don't make any money off of anything ever.

This is part 4a/4 of the sequel to [ Sing Me A Song Of Forgetting ](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/1145.html) .  Part 1 is [ here ](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/5517.html) . Part 2 is [ here ](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/6032.html) . Part 3 is [ here ](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/6796.html) . A companion piece to the 'verse, from Artie's perspective, can be found [ here ](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/10331.html) . LJ forced me to split part 4 into two parts--ideally, they would be read together, with no break in between.

Summary: Dad closes his eyes and rubs at his forehead before he takes a long, deep breath, and when he opens his eyes he has a look Brittany recognizes from the day he first brought her to motocross, or when he asked Kurt to come look at his engine, or when he came out of the bathroom to find Artie and Brittany in the living room staring at the Christmas tree.

  
Brittany has never really  looked at her phone before now. Six minutes in and she can't imagine how she's gone this long without really knowing what it looks like, or how it feels, or how  small dust can be, sticking under the keys. The pinks and reds bleed together and she thinks she can see the individual paint molecules. If she concentrates hard enough, she can probably see this electricity thing she's heard so much about.

She can't remember how to stand up, but her phone is pretty cool to look at, so she doesn't mind.

Dad knocks on her door with a plate of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and incredibly relaxed shoulders. Brittany stares at her phone. “Artie's going to pick me up from dance, I think,” she announces. “Or, well, he said Puck can give us a ride, and he has my homework. We're gonna go to the arcade and eat pizza and blow things up, and he's going to try and convince me to join the brainiacs. I  can't join the brainiacs, Dad.”

Dad drops onto the bed beside her. “Okay, so, don't tell Mom, Britt, but we're going to break that rule about no food on the bed, ok? Have a sandwich. I won't tell if you don't.”

This seems fair.

Dad swallows half a sandwich before he leans over and picks up the forgotten bag from Barnes and Noble. “Hey,” he says, “that's the updated  Grey's Anatomy , isn't it? With the supplementary illustrated CD? You've wanted that for a while.”

This is true.

*****

  
(It had happened like this: Tina had called an emergency meeting during their shared study hall third period to discuss the worst news of the semester: Brett had been expelled for one too many drug violations, and although no one really cared about the rules allegedly governing academic decathlons, he had become too unreliable too close to competition season.

“Well, that's awesome,” muttered Artie as Tina prepared one of her legendary vicious texts to inform Brett they would no longer be utilizing his truly formidable knowledge of botanics, chemistry, quantum mechanics, complementary medicine, and Russian history, “now we don't even have a full team. How are we supposed to compete now? We're up against Carmel in two weeks, and it's really, really lame to lose to them in everything .”

Tina rolled her eyes without looking up. “We just need a warm body,” she sighed. “We've got this. Can't one of your jazz band kids come along?”

“I have pull , I don't control their minds ,” snapped Artie. “And do you really want to know what I had to do to get them to come back after they had to learn two original songs in two days? It involved copious amounts of—actually, now that I think about it, it might be my fault that Brett got expelled.”

“It is,” agreed Mike mildly. “You're really lucky Brad didn't talk. Tina and I would have had to kill you if you'd gotten half our team kicked out. We would've been total—”

“If you say ninja assassins ,” snapped Tina, “I am breaking up with you and  your abs.” Mike closed his mouth with a click, and Artie wondered how to warn him that she could get  so much angrier .

“Ok, you know what, this is a solvable problem,” he decided, thinking out loud. “We started this club last year, after our downfall at the hands of Carmel , need I remind you, because we wanted to know if all the random, haphazard knowledge we are taught—”

“—if you can call it teaching —” remarked Tina.

“—during our—”

“— remarkably  negligent—” added Mike.

“—educational careers here at McKinley was actually useful for anything ever, and also we were jealous of Kurt & Mercedes' handshake.”

“ I'm  a founding member of the McKinley Sartorial Review Board  too, I don't know why they didn't let me in on the handshake,” mumbled Tina into Mike's shoulder. Artie pretended not to notice when Mike stroked her hair consolingly.

“Well, you didn't put a brick through his windshield or tell her she looked like a technicolor zebra; they probably thought you just didn't care,” Mike explained gently, going in for a kiss. Artie cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Right. So we made our own totally ghetto handshake, and gave ourselves a reclamatory name, and then we started kicking ass at this whole trivia thing. Does anyone care to explain why?” Artie turned automatically to Mike; they had rehearsed this to near perfection.

Mike grinned. “The Brainiacs were originally composed of a rag-tag team of four social peripheries. There was Artie, possessed of a unique vantage point on the world, truly impressive rapping skills—pretty fly for a white guy, etc.—and an uncanny ability to link everything back to video games, computer programming, and math. His proof for his theorem on the Post-Valentine's Relationship Slump shall go down in nerdy infamy. Then there was his dealer—”

“No,” interrupted Artie hastily, “we need to cut that part, shit just got real, man.”

“—his chemistry lab partner, Brett, who saw the metaphysical and psychedelic in the mundane and remembered everything he ever heard when high which was, fortuitously, all the time. Artie was also joined by his then-girlfriend, Tina, the most beautiful, observant, and quick-witted girl to ever grace this school with her presence, yet with the modesty to keep her incredible gifts to herself at the sidelines and thus allow others a chance to feel, for the only time in their sad, sad lives, as though they might have even a glimmer of potential.” Mike paused to return Tina's giggling nuzzles, and Artie rolled his eyes. That sort of unprofessional conduct could  not be tolerated when they finally made their documentary. He bet Brittany could film it; where was she? He took over.

“Rounding out the quartet, ironically, was Mike Chang, former football bully and throwing drill dummy turned disgustingly flexible dancer, gifted with the unsettling wealth of knowledge that comes from everyone automatically trusting the quiet one.”

“And we won because we're very good at filling in the blanks, it being the only skill we're allowed to really hone here without upsetting some delicate component of the social order,” finished Tina with a dry grin. “So always remember, kids: notice everything, remember most of it, get a lot of practice at making and committing to tentative hypotheses because no one ever wants to talk to you directly about anything, and, voila. You too can be an academic decathlon champion!”

“Oh my god,” said Artie. “I know who our new fourth member can be.”)

*****

  
“What's a brainiac, Britt?” Dad asks once she's reaching for a second sandwich. Brittany presses into the hotdog roll with her fingers and watches the jelly mash up to the top before she answers.

“It's a club Artie's in. They wear horrible jackets and stay after school to practice hitting buzzers and they know a lot of things and spend their weekends traveling to other schools to show off how smart they are. They only have three members now, I guess—Tina and Mike and Artie. Artie wants me to be the fourth person. They need four people, but it's not an orgy so I'm not sure why.”

Dad chokes on his sandwich and she looks up for a moment. “If you can cough, you don't need the Heimlich, so stop trying to trick me,” she warns, and he gives her one of his long, odd looks. There's a minute when Brittany focuses on chewing her sandwich and not letting the peanut butter gum up her mouth, and then:

“Brittany,” Dad says. “You wore that Cheerios jacket all the time even though it gave you hives.”

“It was a  uniform , Dad, this is different, Kurt had like a ten minute speech about those jackets the first time he saw Tina in one, he was so mad I cried—”

“You stay after school almost every day  anyways , and I know from game night that you love hitting buzzers.”

“Well, duh, it makes your hand  and your ears buzz—”

“Your life goal is still to be an intern on  House , right?”

“Yeah.  M.D. House M.D.  He keeps using the wrong tests every week, he needs some guidance.”

“Right.” Dad closes his eyes and rubs at his forehead before he takes a long, deep breath, and when he opens his eyes he has a look Brittany recognizes from the day he first brought her to motocross, or when he asked Kurt to come look at his engine, or when he came out of the bathroom to find Artie and Brittany in the living room staring at the Christmas tree.

He wears that look a lot, now that she remembers.

*****

  
Artie cannot remember ever being this pissed at Asian Fusion, including that time it turned out one of them was cheating on him with the other. He puts down what's left of his sandwich next to his phone.

“Guys,” he insists, “ this was your idea . Don't you pussy out on me now.” Mike rocks back uncomfortably, and Artie narrows his eyes. “You,” he says suspiciously, turning to look at Tina, “said she would be  perfect .”

“What Mike  meant ,” explains Tina, “is that he's never met a dancer who's enough of an  idiot savant , oh look, I said what you couldn't, to name the bones in his feet while she was trying to figure out why he was complaining about them. He's easily impressed.”

Mike spits out his milk with a “Hey!”at the same time Artie starts blinking in uncontrollable confusion. “I don't understand,” he says. “You were the one who said she corrects Mr. Shue's grammar in Spanish.”

Tina rolls her eyes. “Yeah, because she learned  Latin from those stupid medical dictionaries she carries around like security blankets. Who the hell knows  Latin  anymore?”

“What you are saying is so illogical I actually don't know where to start. It's like trying to help Puck in geometry,” mumbles Artie, not sure whether to feel furious or genuinely confused. How is knowing Latin  not an asset for an academic trivia team? “I can't believe this.”

“Don't,” advises Mike. “This is her  I'm not saying what I really mean voice.”

Artie hadn't realized she had one of those, and he's still trying to work out how different last summer might have been if he had and what the hell this means for  now while Tina plows ahead. “Okay, fine, Mike, I'll just come out and say it, ok? Artie, we thought you were  joking about asking the school  retard to be a Brainiac.”

Artie's pretty sure that someone important from, like, NASA, or something, should investigate why that word has the power to pull all the noise and air and motion from a room.

(And from  Tina , of all people?)

“Excuse me?” he manages. Tina rolls her eyes.

“Go on. Defend your girlfriend.” Tina chokes, and her voice comes out strained. “Is that even legal, by the way?”

“What the  hell , Tina?” yells Artie at the same time Mike puts a hand on her shoulder.

“I think he gets the point now. And you look like you're going to be sick, or cry again, so maybe you should stop anyways.” Tina lets out a shaky breath and reaches carefully for her cosmetics bag, and none of this makes any sense.

“I'm really sorry, Artie,” she says as she lays out her mascara and eyeliner. “I practiced that for half an hour in the bathroom. I didn't even have to practice my Righteous Blade Of Feminism or Vampire Princess speeches that much.” Mike nods sympathetically, and Artie is still trying to remember how to breath and has the unsettling feeling that they are running off of entirely different scripts.

“Would someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Tina begins carefully re-penciling an eyebrow. “Honestly, Artie?” she says, Team Captain voice back in full effect. “You're not at idiot. You've  got to know what those Carmel kids are going to say about her.  To you. To  her . Are you ready for it? I know she is, she's always heard it, but are  you ?”

Mike regards him solemnly. “Puck's not going to be here to punch anyone this time,” he reminds Artie. “And I know he's been trying to teach her some tricks since the Santa thing, but we'll get kicked out if we get violent.”

“So what we need to know,” continues Tina, “what  you need to know, is just how much you believe in Brittany. We, um, might have overheard—fuck it, this is the Brainiacs,  of course we overheard— that she doesn't think she's worth it. She's wrong, obviously, like we all agreed, she's perfect. But you've got to know what you're getting into. What you're getting her into. You've got to decide, really be sure, that it's worth it.”

[Part b](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/11358.html)


	5. Out Tonight 4b/4

Out Tonight 4b/4

Title : Out Tonight   
Author : Crown Of Weeds   
Rating : I'm putting it at R for the future, and so I can use whatever language and concepts I want.   
Word Count : This part is 887 words.   
Spoilers : Watched Night of Neglect? You're good.   
Pairings : Um, this story turned out to have no one getting  anything . Sorry.   
Warnings : Brittany is characterized as having an [ ID/DD ](http://www.aaidd.org/content_104.cfm) , and other characters can be canonically ableist about it. It's complicated.   
Disclaimer : I don't own  Glee , nor do I own  Rent from which I have taken the title  Out Tonight . I put them back when I'm done, and I don't make any money off of anything ever.

This is part 4b/4 of the sequel to[Sing Me A Song Of Forgetting](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/1145.html). Part 1 is[here](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/5517.html). Part 2 is[here](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/6032.html). Part 3 is[here](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/6796.html). Part 4a is [here](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/11240.html). A companion piece to the 'verse, from Artie's perspective, can be found[here](http://crown-of-weeds.livejournal.com/10331.html). LJ forced me to split part 4 into two parts--ideally, they would be read together, with no break in between.

Summary: Pretty obviously the issue with the Time Turner was that she thought the world needed to twirl and bleed around  her , instead of the way it’s always been.

 

  


  
Artie remembers the day he rolled up to Brittany and Santana during their morning ritual of primping and popping pills. Brittany had kissed him on the cheek like every time, except this time Santana had reeled her back with a glare before handing over the pill-case, and he remembers that when Santana had met his eyes over Brittany's head as she'd leaned back down he'd finally, months too late, understood the transaction.

Artie remembers the day he came to afterschool practice on Thursdays a little early and how he'd pulled up short in the door when Brittany had punched Puck squarely in the jaw before slamming her knee into his crotch and pushing him onto the floor.

“Good job,” Puck had groaned from the floor as Artie sat frozen. “Give me a second and I'll teach you how to break someone's ribs with your heel.”

Artie remembers how he'd turned a corner last month and barely had time to register Brittany, surrounded by puckheads and leers at the end of the hall, before Finn had jogged up to her. “Hey, Brittany,” he had grinned, elbowing through the other boys. “I was just coming to ask you if you'd be interested in giving me some dance lessons. You know. For Glee club. Because I suck.”

Brittany had nodded. “Yeah, you really do,” and Artie was just close enough to see how something on Finn's face had flicked before he'd extended his hand.

“Awesome. Let's go to the auditorium. Like, now.”

Artie remembers the human cannon, and Artie also remembers Quinn Fabrey sitting in Santa's lap.

*****

  
“Ok. Britt, ba—Brittany, what I'm trying to say,” Dad says, and he pauses, and then his lips tighten and the words rush out, “is that you do all the things these brainiacs do  already , and if you know more about medicine than Gregory House you can probably teach them a thing or two. And if you want to be a doctor?” he sighs, and it sounds like it hurts. “Then this will look great on your college applications.”

“Vanessa says I should go to a dance school. A conservatory,” she reminds him, and something flashes in his eyes.

“Vanessa,” he says tightly, “is also eight. She doesn't even know what an appendix is.”

“Well, that's because she got hers taken out,” Brittany says indulgently. “And she was, like, four. I mean, how would she know?” She frowns. “It's a stupid excuse, because  I  definitely would have known, but Vanessa says we need to be nice to each other because we're sisters. She says she has to be extra patient with me, so I have to do the same with her.”

Dad stares silently at Brittany for a moment, again, before he moves the empty sandwich plate aside and pulls Brittany into a one-armed hug.

“Ok. Here's the deal. You know how you asked Grandma for  Grey's Anatomy for Christmas, and she got you those awful DVDs instead?”

“Yeah. That sucked.”

“Right. It wasn't what you wanted, and you were unhappy, and you were unhappy because you knew how things were supposed to be, right? You knew they could have been better.”

Brittany is super-annoyed right now, because she has been doing really well breathing for a while now even if she can't remember how to stand up, and now she can't even do  that .

“I think Artie wants you to help him make things go the way they are supposed to. And I don't know if things, for you, are going to look like dance or medicine or...something else ten years later, but I do know that right now Artie wants to make something better.”

Dad takes a deep, sharp breath. “He wants to put one thing the way it should be.”

“And I think that you, of all people, Brittany, deserve to give that a chance.”

Brittany's not quite sure  why she's crying into Dad's shirt over some DVDs she'd traded in for  One Tree Hill months ago, but at least she gets a hug out of it.

*****

Artie's pretty sure all his blood has rushed to his legs, because his ears are ringing and he has tunnel vision and he can't hear a thing.

“Yeah. I'm sure.”

 

*****

  
Dad drops her off at the studio door with enough quarters to make the whole arcade light up later. Brittany goes in, and the familiar smells of chalk and pine-scented cleaner and sweat loosen something in her brain as she changes into her dance clothes.

*****

  
Brittany pushes off against the studio floor. Spot, turn, spot, turn, faster, tighter, let it go,  there it is .

*****

  
Pretty obviously the issue with the Time Turner was that she thought the world needed to twirl and bleed around  her , instead of the way it’s always been.

*****

  
Artie picks her up after lessons, and her head is too warm, her muscles too fuzzy, for her to laugh at the  one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-other- ness of his wheelchair in a dance studio. She drops onto his lap and wraps her arms around his neck instead, burrowing in.

“Hey,” laughs Artie, small and quiet, warm against her cheek. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m right here.”


End file.
